


Fun and Games with Whipped Cream

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya demonstrates to Napoleon all the fun you can have with a glass, some alcohol and whipped cream.  Written a few years ago, but dusted off, revamped and rewritten for the 2014 Valentine's Day Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fun and Games with Whipped Cream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jkkitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jkkitty/gifts).



 

There was so much to learn about American customs.  When Illya first came to America, it felt as if he would overload on all of it.  Even his exposure to English habits hadn’t prepared him for the avalanche of commercialism.  

In America, it seemed as if you could buy anything at any time.  Toss in a holiday and the commercialism rose to a fevered pitch.  Illya was fairly sure he would explode before he got through his first Christmas.  He decided that everyone living in the US was holiday crazy.

However, there was one holiday Illya loved.  It was Valentine’s Day.  It had initially struck him as a peculiar thing, although he quickly saw the attractiveness when he discovered the chocolate angle.

He’d never had much exposure to candy growing up.  In college there was just enough money for the bare essentials, although he did love his hot chocolate and he would take on extra tutoring just to make sure he could indulge himself now and again.

Illya bit into a chocolate and made a face.  “Ugh, coconut.”  He spit out his mouthful into a paper sack and tossed the partially eaten candy into it.  The one nice thing about living alone, he could do what he wanted and that meant he didn’t need to eat the coconut-filled chocolates.

The first Valentine’s Day had come as a total shock.  He knew something was going on as an explosion of hearts and frilly lace started appearing in windows.

Then he walked into his office that February 14 and nearly tripped over his own feet.  His desk was stacked with heart-shaped boxes.  Laughing, Napoleon told Illya that he’d made quite an impact on the female members of UNCLE.

“And we are always thankful for the hopes of young women everywhere,” Illya said to the chocolate he held before he took a bite.  Mmm, this one had a chocolate filling – much improved over coconut.  

He now looked forward to the boxes of chocolates that mysteriously appeared on his desk.  He’d even taken to dispersing a few himself, just to keep up the illusion of being interested and guarantee that come Valentine’s Day, there would be chocolate to greet him.

There was a knock on his door and Illya glanced over at it suspiciously.  Everyone he knew was either out on a date, getting ready for a date or reaping the benefits of a date.

He wiped his mouth, stood and walked cautious to the door.  He slipped his P-38 from its holster and stood to one side of the jam.  “Yes?”

“Illya, open up.  It’s me, Napoleon.”

Illya frowned.  “Nice try.  Napoleon is otherwise occupied this evening.”

“I thought I was, but the lady had other ideas.  Please, Illya.  I feel the fool out here.”

The voice sounded like Napoleon and Illya cracked the door, ready to shove his weight against it if it proved a trick.

Napoleon stood there, holding a bouquet of wilted, half broken flowers in his hand.  Illya looked from Napoleon’s face to the flowers and back.  “Napoleon, you really shouldn’t have.”

“Shut up.”  Napoleon entered, a dejected slope to his shoulders.

Illya grinned.  “I thought you were spending an evening of romantic bliss with the lovely Clarisse.”

“I was.  The lovely Clarisse forgot to mention she had a fiancé.”

“Social blunder, overlooking a small detail like that.”

Napoleon shoved the flowers into Illya’s stomach and walked into the small living room.  “So you have anything to drink besides rot gut vodka?”

“Thanks to your Christmas suggestion, I have enough alcohol to open my own bar.”

Napoleon flopped down on the couch, ignoring the piles of empty candy wrappers.  “Good. I need something to drown my sorrow”

 “I was just remembering. Back in England, we had this tradition and I was just wondering…”

“And it involves alcohol?”

All good traditions do or should.” Illya poked around until he found a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream and some amaretto liquor behind the more common alcohols. 

“What are you doing?” Napoleon was watching him intently, but still not inclined to move from his lounging position.

“Remembering…” Illya carried the bottles over to the coffee table and plunked them down by Napoleon’s feet. He then headed to the kitchen, to return a minute later with a can of whipped cream and two shot glasses.

“Okay, intrigued now.” Napoleon had sat up and was opening the bottles. “What do I do?”

“Quarter ounce of the Irish cream and half an ounce of the amaretto.” Illya waited for Napoleon to measure the liquor into the glasses and then spritzed the tops of both glasses with the whipped cream.

“Should I even ask why you have whipped cream?”  Napoleon’s smile has a devilish smirk to it.  Illya pointed the nozzle into his mouth and squirted.

He swallowed and smiled.  “I like whipped cream.”

“I bet you do.”

Illya set the can down and held up a finger. “Now this is the trick. Hands behind your back and drink it.”

“How can you do that if you can’t pick it up?” Napoleon was entering into the spirit of the adventure.

“Like this.” Illya knelt down in front of the coffee table and bent over the glass. He opened his mouth, placing it around the entire rim of the glass and tipped it back, swallowing the contents with one gulp and set the glass back down.

“And the purpose for this?”

“Well, I’d be lying if I said it was for honorable intentions, especially with its name.”   
  
"And this name would be?"   
  
"Blow job shots." Illya shut his eyes as the liquor hit his stomach with a pleasantly warm explosion. “You usually did it to get someone drunk… for the nefarious reasons, hence the name.” He gestured Napoleon forward.

“Remind me to come up with something more romantic when I am relating this.”

 _“_ You could always call it, _le travail de coup_.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s French for blow job.”

“I see. Never let it be said a Solo lacks courage and a certain disregard of propriety” Napoleon regarded the glass for a long moment and then replicated Illya’s moves, coughing as the alcohol burned a path down his throat. “Jesus…” He coughed more and Illya thumped him upon the back

“Sorry, should have warned you. You shouldn’t try to swallow and breathe at the same time. ” Illya repeated the procedure. “It’s better the second time.  A colleague of mine drank fourteen of them once. He then needed his stomach pumped. They said the only thing that saved him was years of vodka abuse. I would recommend not trying to top his record.”

Illya leaned down to his glass and dipped the tip of his tongue in the whipped cream, glancing up through his eyelashes to see if Napoleon was watching. Assured of his partner’s rapt attention, he licked the whipped cream delicately, like a cat lapping milk, then slipped his mouth slowly around the glass rim. He tilted his head back quickly and swallowed, aware of Napoleon’s eyes watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down. He removed the glass from his mouth and smiled slightly at his partner. “Your turn…”

                                                                                ****

Napoleon cracked open an eye and moaned softly. His head was threatening to secede from the rest of him and his stomach rolled unpleasantly. It took him a full minute to remember Illya’s little drinking game. He remembered laughing… a lot and something else. But what?

He stretched out an arm and hit something… someone? He glanced over at the mound beside him and frowned. Who? Well, Illya, obviously, too drunk to go home spent the night. But why here and not the guest room or the couch? That didn’t make any sense. They must have been very drunk.

It took two attempts to sit up, but he managed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stopped and looked first down at himself, then over at his still-slumbering partner. _What in the name of God am I doing naked in bed with Illya?_

Something made him raise the bedcovers and glance beneath, dropping them when his investigation revealed Illya in a similar state of undress.

“Think, Napoleon, think,” he ordered himself

“Can you do it quietly? My head would appreciate it.” Illya’s voice was muffled by his pillow. “ _Bozhe moi_ , now I remember why I stopped drinking those.”

“Illya, I’m trying very hard to remain calm for the moment, but I do have just one question. Why are we in bed together naked?” 

“So, you’re not only a happy drunk, but a forgetful one as well.” Illya rolled over and smiled sleepily at him. That should teach him to try and drink the Russian under the table. “Give yourself some time and it will **come** to you.” Napoleon’s eyes widened at the emphasis and at the marks that graced the Russian’s neck, marks that hadn’t been there the day before. Marks that looked unsettlingly like…

Illya pulled the blanket back up around his neck, grinning at Napoleon’s half-strangled groan. In spite of the pounding of his head, this hangover had been well worth driving his partner insane. 

                                                                

 


End file.
